


Novelty Socks

by thehoundisdead



Series: maybe it's the clothes on your back (maybe i'm in love) [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Fluff, M/M, oh my god they were roommates, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 09:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehoundisdead/pseuds/thehoundisdead
Summary: Bev sets Bill up on a blind date which wouldn't be a problem if he wasn't so in love with his roommate. His very straight roommate.Based onthis post.Now in Russian!by the lovelyebutvoiprintcip





	Novelty Socks

“C’mon, Bill, just give it a try,” Bev all but whines, poking Bill in the side as he shakes his head, “Ben says he’s a really good guy and I’ve seen his picture and  _ trust  _ me, he’s your type.”

“B-Bev, you know I don’t like b-blind dates,” Bill repeats for the fiftieth time that day, running a slightly jittery hand through his hair as he houghs out a sigh, leaning back on Beverly’s couch. 

“That’s because you  _ refuse _ to accept how interesting and captivating and intelligent and  _ handsome _ -”

“Okay!” 

“Okay, you’ll go?” Bev’s grin is half excited, half smug and that’s something that Bill just can’t stand for, not when they’re talking about this. He shakes his head again and sends his best glare at her. 

“Okay, s-shut up,” he says, continuing to glare at her as she pouts from across the couch. Scooching closer, she reaches one hand out to grab Bill’s knee. 

“Oh, come on, Ben’s friends with him and he’s a great judge of character. The worst that happens is you wind up having a nice dinner with someone fun and then you go home, never to see him again,” she pokes him again in the ribs, cajoling him like she did when they were kids, “And stop looking at me like that, you know that doesn’t work.” 

“First of all, Ben is f-friends with everyone, so that doesn’t mean anything to me-”

“Ben is  _ nice  _ to everyone, he’s not  _ friends _ with everyone-”

“Second, I don’t need you to find me a date,” Bill finishes, talking over her interruption. Now Bev is the one shooting him a glare, eyes hooded beneath her red hair, arms crossed over her chest, bottom lip puffed out. 

“Okay then, Mr. Cool, when was the last time you went on a date?” 

“...”

“You can’t even remember, can you?” she accuses, and that’s when Bill starts to feel himself losing this argument. From the burgeoning triumphant look on Bev’s face, he knows she can feel it too. 

“I can remember!” and he can it’s just, it was a really awful date. The guy had shown up late, ate his spaghetti extremely quickly and then barfed it back up. Needless to say Bill didn’t call him back for date number two, “It was three months ago.”

“Three?” Bev takes a moment to think to herself before her eyes light up again, “The spaghetti guy? You can’t seriously be counting the spaghetti guy.”

“It was a d-date!” he defends, cursing his past self. After he left the restaurant, he’d headed straight to Bev’s, recounting the whole story to her and Ben over a bottle of wine. Ben had gone red, trying to keep his smile to himself while Bev, shaking with silent laughter, shoved her face into Ben’s shoulder. 

“Fine, when was the last time you had a  _ good _ date?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. 

“There’s no guarantee this will b-be a good date either, Bev,” he rolls his eyes as she throws her hands in the air. 

“There are no guarantees in life, Bill. Besides,” she adds smugly, “I already set up the date. You don’t want to stand the poor boy up, do you?” 

“I hate you,” he says, meeting her glare with his own. They stay like that, just staring at each other, before Bill sighs, “W-w-what time am I meeting him?”

“Six o’clock, the café down the street,” she says, with a self-satisfied grin on her face. Bill throws a pillow at her, effectively wiping it off, because he absolutely  _ refuses _ to look at that face. Ben walks in the door just in time to see Bev tackle Bill off the couch and wrestle him to the ground. He sighs. 

“Already guys? We haven’t even had dinner yet,” he complains, watching as Bill knocks Beverly off him and goes to grab another pillow from her couch, “Do I need to get the spray bottle?”

“We’ll be good!” they shout in unison and both attempt to look so piteous Ben can’t help but crack a smile. 

“Great, because I was thinking tonight I’d make some chicken soup and I need both of you to help with- guys? Guys!” 

~*-*~

Okay, it’s not that Bill is  _ averse _ to going on a date. Really he’s not, and even then blind dates aren’t so bad; he’s been on his fair share before it’s just...

“Hey, you’re home,” says a warm voice as Bill drops his keys into the little glass bowl on the bar between his kitchen and family room. He looks up to see blond curls, and soft brown eyes rested on him. 

“Yeah, I think my f-friend was starting to want some alone time with her b-boyfriend,” Bill shrugs and ignores the warm feeling in his chest as Stan smiles at him from the couch. 

“I was just about to start  _ Stand by Me _ if you want to watch it with me,” Stan says, voice lilting up at the end, as if there’s any question as to what Bill’s answer is going to be. 

“S-sure, just let me go change real f-f...quick,” he smiles and tilts his head towards his room. Stan smiles and nods back, watching as Bill retreats with soft footsteps. 

Bill would be fine with going on a date. He just wants that date to be with a specific person. A person who lives with him and has soft dimples and sometimes makes mean jokes but never about Bill and happens to be his very straight roommate. 

And therein lies the problem. 

One might think that by twenty-seven Bill would know better; not only is it a terrible idea to have a crush on his roommate but really why can’t his heart ever go for someone who’s actually attainable? 

Whatever. Maybe a date will be good for him. Gotta take active steps away from Stan, right? God, he’s pathetic, he thinks as he pulls on sweatpants and slips off his shirt in favor of a soft worn t-shirt. 

He steps back out into the hallway and pads over to the couch, sitting on the opposite end to Stan. Looking at him hesitantly for just a second Stan moves, situating himself sideways and planting his feet, clad is soft deep blue socks with little Star of David’s (a gift from his friend Richie) splattered across them like polka dots, on Bill’s lap with little acknowledgement. Instead, he focuses back on the TV and presses play. Bill sits for a moment, deciding, and then rests one of his hands on Stan’s leg, thumb gently brushing the gap of revealed skin between the bottom of his pants and the top of his socks. 

It’s a testament to how far they’ve come really. When Bill had first moved into the apartment, Stan hadn’t wanted to touch, or be touched by, him at all. He’d understood at first; they’d hadn’t known each other before Bill had applied for the apartment but months in and Stan still wasn’t comfortable with casual touch. He always ensured there was enough room between them for no accidental brushes, accepted no hand shakes or high fives and was just generally always, physically at least, distant. 

So Bill had given him space; if Stan didn’t want to be touched, he wouldn’t touch him. This turned out to be the right move; the more friendly they slowly became with each other, the closer Stan would get, letting his hand linger when it brushed against Bill, sitting close enough that their thighs pressed up against each other and now comfortably resting his feet on Bill like his own personal cushion. 

It was all Bill could do not to go crazy. 

He wanted to touch. He wanted to touch Stanley so  _ badly _ but he also didn’t want to scare him away. Sure, he gets to touch Stan the way his is now, his thumb pressed against a warm, soft, ankle but it’s not the  _ way  _ he wants to touch him. 

He wants to know if Stan’s cheeks are as soft as they look, wants to trace the outline of his lips with the tips of his fingers, wants to run a hand through his curly hair and lightly scratch against his scalp. But none of that is particularly friendly touch  _ especially _ with someone who is already skittish. So he keeps his hands to himself. Mostly. 

_ “I’m in the prime of my youth, and I’ll only be young once!”  _

_ “Yeah, but you’re gonna be stupid for the rest of your life!”  _

He can see Stan crack a smile then, just the tiniest one but enough to make his left cheek dimple. And he wants. Wants to smooth out that crater with his thumb, wants to be the  _ cause _ of it. He wants to make Stan smile so big his whole face lights up but that’s a work in progress. 

“You w-w-would like Chris the best,” Bill laughs, looking at Stan fully now instead of just from the corner of his eye. He holds Stan’s gaze and offers him a crooked smile. 

“Excuse me?” Stan asks, eyebrows furrowed but eyes amused, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know, he’s smart and a bad boy and b-bitchy,” Bill laughs again at the affronted look on Stan’s face. 

“Are you calling  _ me _ bitchy?” Stan asks, eyes wide as he splays a hand across his chest. The action catches Bill’s eye and what he wouldn't give for that to be  _ his _ hand. 

“If the boot fuh-fits.” 

“Don’t you dare use Woody against me,” Stan accuses, one finger pointed towards Bill’s face. 

“I’m just saying,” Bill laughs again, grip tightening around Stan’s ankle, “Have you h-heard the way you talk to Richie?”

“Well,  _ someone _ has to keep Richie in check and I can’t trust Eddie to do it,” Stan says, and then leans forward to whisper conspiratorially, “He’s too fond.” 

And that Bill gets. Because Eddie  _ is _ altogether too fond; he lets things slide, he slips Richie these little smiles, warm and private, when he thinks no one is looking. He says harsh words and then smoothes them over with the soft touch of his thumb against the back of Richie’s hand. He’s incredibly soft with Richie. 

At that moment Stan’s feet slip from his lap and slide underneath his leg, toes wiggling against the back of Bill’s thigh. And Bill thinks, maybe he’s not much better. 

~*-*~

“No,” Bev says from where she lays upside down on Bill’s bed, feet propped up against his headboard. 

“What?” Bill asks, standing in front of his closet, grasping a dark red shirt. He turns to look at her, hand still half pulling the shirt from its hanger. If he hadn’t known any better he might have guessed she wasn’t even talking to him in the first place. She is the picture of ease, eyes closed with one arm rested against her forehead, the other splayed out on the mattress next to her. 

“You can’t wear that,” she says from her position, and she really  _ must _ have been watching him at some point because Bill is positive she’s not psychic. Well, ninety-eight percent sure. 

“And w-why not?” 

“You have to wear blue. I told Ben to tell your date you would be wearing blue, so he’d know it’s you,” she says all this like it’s obvious, turning her head to the side to look at him with a small smile, “Oh, and make sure you sit in the corner window seat.”

“You duh-didn’t think to tell me that b-b-buh  _ fuck _ sooner?” he asks, rolling his eyes as he lets go of the red shirt, turning to dig through his closet some more. He’s pretty sure he had a nice blue shirt tucked away somewhere in here, “W-what is he going to be wearing, then?”

“Green, you’re favorite.”

“Sure,” he mumbles, still digging through his closet until his hands land on the shirt he’s looking for. He yanks it out of his closet and turns to look at Bev, “Is this g-good enough for you?” 

She sits up then, swinging her legs around so they dangle off the edge of the bed, a small frown on her lips, “You’re not going to act like  _ that _ on the date, right? It’ll be fun, if you let it.”

Bill’s mind flashes to soft curls, golden in the streams of light that shine through their windows, to novelty socks and movie nights and exposed hips standing in the kitchen. He can’t imagine himself having  _ that _ much fun tonight, “I’ll be good, m-mom.” 

“I just want you to be happy,” Bev says in a small voice, eyes soft as they stare at him. Bill would feel guilty if he hadn’t been playing her games since they were kids. 

“Yeah, y-yeah, you want everyone to be in luh-love the way you and Ben are, I know,” he mutters without any bite. 

Beverly throws her hands in the air with an exasperated expression, letting herself fall back on the bed as she says, “Fine, smartass. Get dressed, you have a date tonight.”

~*-*~

Bill arrives at the café early, clad in a nice blue shirt and black jeans, hair combed soft. Waving at Mike, the barista, he takes his seat at the table in the corner and waits idly, fingernails digging into the skin around his thumb nail. It’s a nervous tick, one his mother had tried to force out of him, mostly in the same way she tried to eliminate his stutter. Both habits remain but he hasn’t spoken to his mother in two months. Life is a strange trade off. 

Banishing that line of thought, Bill shakes his head and glances out the window. He loves people watching; in fact it's one of his favorite parts of coming to this café, besides the fact that the coffee is actually good. He posts up with his laptop and alternates between actually writing and watching the street people walking by, imagining what their lives are like. 

Sometimes Stan comes with him with a book of his own; once he caught Stan reading one of  _ his _ books with a different jacket placed over the top. It frustrates Bill because it’s not even his best one and he doesn’t know how Stanley liked it, if he read any of the others, if he’s put together that now Bill has enough money to live on his own but stays in their shitty apartment because he wants to be with him. But Stan’s visits are the best because he’s quiet and doesn’t mind the clack of Bill’s fingers hammering away on his keyboard and sometimes he lets their knees knock together underneath the table, lets-

“Ahem,” Bill hears a voice from above him and his head snaps towards the sound, ready to either greet his date or tell this person that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t have any coffee yet, the table is  _ taken _ except. Except it’s Stan, standing about Bill with a confused expression on his face. 

“Stan?” Bill can hear himself ask, though he’s not sure when he told his lips to move. He has a brief flash of grabbing Stan and running away, forgetting the date, forgetting anyone else but. But Bill isn’t like that so instead he says, “I’m s-sorry, I can’t really hang out right now, I’m waiting for my duh-duh-date.” 

“I know,” Stan nods, shocking Bill. His eyes follow Stan’s form intensely as Stan pulls out the seat across from him and slips into it. Quick fantasies flash through his brain; Stanley found out about the date and is here to stop it, he can’t let Bill date anyone else, can’t, because he loves-, “I think I’m your date.” 

“W-what?” he’s stumped, because he  _ really _ wasn’t expecting that, not when he’s pretty sure Stanley isn’t even gay. Why would Ben set him up on a date with another boy?

“I mean you’re...” a look of doubt passes over Stanley’s face, only for a second, but enough to make Bill feel guilty, “Blue shirt, six o’clock? The café down the street?” 

It’s only then that Bill really registers what Stanley is wearing; an olive green button up, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, over khaki colored tight jeans. His skin is clear and his eyes are soft and Bill can feel the first twinge of hope in his chest, “Did B-Ben set this up for you?”

“Indirectly, I suppose,” Stan thinks, one eyebrow lifting, “Mostly, I think it was Richie, he must have thought something like this would be funny, I’m gonna-”

“Funny?” the question is out before he can stop himself and he cringes internally because honestly, he's not sure he wants to hear the answer. He doesn’t think this is funny. 

“To set me up with my straight roommate,” Stan says slowly, like he’s explaining to a child, “You know, haha how awkward.” 

“Y-y-you think I’m stra-stra-str-” Bill stops, trying to compose himself enough so he can speak. Mostly he’s just  _ very _ confused, “You think I’m s-straight?”

“Well, I mean,” Stanley starts and then abruptly stops, eyeing Bill up and down, “Aren’t you?” 

“N-no!” Bill bursts out, hands flying up, “I thought y-you were  _ straight _ !”

“ _ Me _ ?” Stanley sounds almost offended, mouth opening and closing a few times, finger coming up to point at himself, “You think  _ I’m _ straight?” 

“You never s-said anything!” 

“Neither did you!” 

“No, I’ve just been f-flirting with you this whole time!” Bill nearly shouts back, exasperated. The words are out in a second and he can’t stop them or bring them back, so he closes his lips tight and can feel the heat beginning to settle in his cheeks. He looks down at his hands, there’s a tiny pool of blood on his thumb from where he’s been picking at it and he sighs, pulling it off the table to wipe it against his jeans as a wave of silence looms over them.

“Bill,” Stan says in a voice that is so quiet and endearing Bill can’t stop himself from looking up to meet his gaze. There’s something in Stan’s eyes, something Bill could swear he’s seen in his own, “You’ve been flirting with me?”

“Yes,” Bill all but whispers, lips starting to pull up at the corners when he sees the blush on Stan’s face, the smile that’s mirrored back at him. Stan reached across the table, hand gripping Bill’s, flipping it up and allowing their fingers to thread together. 

“I wish I had known,” there’s a smile in Stan’s voice, big enough that the dimples have reappeared on his cheeks only bigger than Bill has ever seen and his heart swells when he realizes  _ he  _ did that, “We could have gone out a lot sooner.” 

They stare at each other for just a second longer, until Bill squeezes Stan’s hand in his own and Stan ducks his head, blushing some more. 

“C’mon,” Stan says, pulling Bill with him as he stands up, “Let's get coffee and walk to the park, there’s this really cool bird’s nest I noticed the last time I was there and-”

~*-*~

Bill finds out that Stan doesn’t take his socks off when he gets into bed. He doesn’t kick them off in the middle of the night either, like a normal person. Instead, he always wakes up with his socks still perfectly slipped on his feet, soft when they rub against Bill’s. 

He also has a drawer full of novelty socks and really Bill doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed that before. But now every night he crawls into Bill’s bed with a different pair of socks, all of them covered in tacky little designs. He looks mock offended when Bill brings it up ( _ “Tacky? You think my clothes are tacky, Bill?” _ ) before cracking a smile and explaining that Richie just keeps buying them for him and he’s not going to  _ waste _ perfectly good socks and besides he’s starting to  _ like  _ them and if Bill has a problem with that he’s going to have to get used to it. 

But Bill doesn’t have a problem. He quite likes them, actually. Tonight, Stan falls onto his bed with a tired smile on his face, rolling over to lay his head on Bill’s chest, ear resting right over his heart. Without hesitating, Bill runs his fingers through Stan’s hair, letting his nails just barely scratch against his scalp because he discovers Stan likes this too and he’s not about to deny them both. And on his feet are long gray socks covered in little menorahs that press against Bill’s legs as they tangle together. 

“Hey Bill?” Stan asks, voice sleepy as he leans up to rub his nose against Bill’s jaw.

“Yeah?”

“I think I fell in love with you a while ago,” he mumbles into the soft skin of Bill’s neck, reaching forward just enough to press his lips firmly against the underside of his jaw. Bill can feel a blush rising in his skin, hot under Stanley’s touch and he pulls him in just a little tighter. 

“Me too, Stan,” Bill whispers into the darkness of their bedroom, “I love you too.” 

~*-*~

“D-don’t say I t-told you so!” 

“Mmm,” Bev smiles at him, smug as ever, “But I  _ did _ say you’d have fun, didn’t I?”

“You could have told me it was S-Stan!” Bill snaps back, but they both know he doesn’t mean it, not when his hand is currently being held by the one and only Stanley Uris. 

“But where’s the fun in that?” she asks, laughing at the aghast look on Bill’s face, quick to bring her arms up to shield the onslaught of pillows thrown at her from across the room. Her laughter never stops. 

“Yeah, Bill,” Stan leans forward, lips brushing against Bill’s ear as he whispers to him, “Where’s the fun in that?” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this is dumb and im not sorry
> 
> [talk to me on tumblr!](https://stanleyyelnatsthethird.tumblr.com)


End file.
